Dancing to Bhaal's Strings
by AstroDeath
Summary: In the turn of a single night, his home and father became painful memories. Thrust into the arms of the Sword Coast, the land of Faerun was now a reality for him to experience. His life would be shaped by the solitude of the fortress library no longer, but rather by those caught up in Bhaal's weave. (BG1).


_Run, child, get out of here!_

Those words rang in his mind as he stumbled in darkness, running for his life. That command replayed over and over, forever the last words heard from his foster father. He had stood rooted in place by uncertainty as something's heavy footsteps shook the earth beneath him and a stranger's voice demanded he be forfeited over. He had heard chanting and a whistling noise before an intense pain burned in his shoulder, bringing him to his knees. Gorion had roared for him to run, seizing him back to his feet and shoving him away. Back turned and heart thumping, he had taken flight while Gorion bought him time.

Monstrous screams and the crackling of magical energy drowned out the storm's thunderous booms. The noise of the ambush would not disappear, harrying him with its relentless cacophony. It pursued him, a devilish reminder that the safety he had only just left behind was shattered.

Blood pounding in his head, he tore through the woods like a panicked animal. His unseeing eyes made the ordeal all the worse, forced as he was to run unaided without Gorion's presence. His familiar let out distressed squeals from within his pack, the fairy dragon roused from its slumber by its master's mad dash. More than once he tripped over his robes, causing him to tumble to the ground and lose his staff, but he kept on going because of his fear of what might happen if he didn't. It was only when his legs gave out that he crumpled one last time, muscles strained to the brink. Too tired to think, too afraid and confused to make sense of his situation, he mustered up the last of his strength and dragged himself into the bushes.

There he broke down, tears from his blind eyes mixing with the rain and flowing down his face. He wept openly, his familiar nuzzling his side and joining him in his cries. The bastion of his young life had been stolen from him, murdered by the blade of a stranger. He curled into a ball, wanting nothing more than to believe his foster father had prevailed and would come find him.

That would not happen though, and he knew it. It could not happen. He had heard the cries of agony as his father was cut down, knowing that it had been his last stand. Gorion put up a valiant fight, but not without cost.

He felt empty and hopeless. Afraid. Alone. His sobs turned into soft whimpers, chest heaving with exhaustion until a restless sleep took hold of him. His dreams gave him no relief. He twisted and turned, assaulted by Gorion's death gasp as the stranger's steel cut through his flesh.

* * *

><p>Where was he?<p>

She did not find him with his father or those foul monsters' corpses; oh Gorion, poor, poor Gorion! The scene had been an utter mess when she came upon the bodies, wrenching her heart. Guilty for it, she spared little time at the site; surely his absence meant he was still alive somewhere! The girl, hardly an adult, trudged through the wilderness, frantic eyes on the lookout. It was when she saw a pair of legs sticking out of a bush, a small, reptilian creature hovering nearby, did she quicken her pace.

"By the gods! Zanven!" she blurted out, voice full of worry.

At the sound of the woman's cry of shock, the fairy dragon rose up from his master's body and hissed, wings aflutter and teeth bared. Light from the morning sun glistened off of the creature's pale blue scales, giving him an unusually intimidating glint. Minuscule as he was, the creature snarled at her with as much ferocity as it could bring to bear.

"Stand back! Get away from us!" he threatened, tail flicking back and forth in sharp movements.

The woman gasped in response, slowing down and holding up her arms. "Easy! Easy there!" she said, trying to soothe the agitated familiar. "Calm down, Peri! Look, I'm a friend!"

Peri glared at her for a moment before recognition settled in—Imoen! He eased his stance and hopped over to her in a frantic rush, wings flapping. He pranced around her, half-jumping, half-flying until she reached down and held him to her chest.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you! I thought... I thought you were someone else, someone trying to hurt Zanven! Oh, joy, joy!"

"Don't you fret," Imoen cooed, giving him a friendly squeeze and setting him down. She smiled as Peri scampered over to the bush Zanven was in, pleased with the fairy dragon's sudden exuberance. She followed, gently pulling her friend out of the shrubs. The smile melted away in an instant, wrinkling into a frown upon seeing his disheveled appearance and wounded shoulder.

"Zanven, wake up. Come on, tough guy." Her voice had a playful tone, though it hardly masked her concern. She shook him, eliciting a soft groan but he laid still. Another shake, another groan, and he rolled over onto his back. Peri whined quietly, crawling onto Zanven's chest and licking his face.

"No! Nooo!" Zanven wailed, rising with a start, arms out pushing away some unseen attacker. Peri squealed as he was launched away and Imoen stumbled backwards with a cry of surprise.

"Angelboy! It's me, Imoen, and Peri! You're okay."

Zanven turned toward Imoen's voice, his face contorting in disbelief. "Im? You-why-how?" he sputtered.

"Mhm! Who else has such a beautiful voice as I, Imoen the Magnificent?" she said with exaggerated panache, trying to put him at ease. She had just righted herself when she tumbled backwards again, Zanven lunging and engulfing her in an embrace. His hands groped at her hair and face and patted her shoulders before he hugged her tightly.

"Oh, it really is you!" he choked, emotions held at bay by sleep coming out in a rush; already fresh tears were rolling down his golden cheeks.

"It really is me! No tricks! Don't squeeze so hard now, else you'll break me in two!" She pushed him away and eased out of his grasp, holding him in front of her by his arms. She reached up and pushed the cloth fold over his eyes up onto his forehead, studying his face. Zanven's cloudy, yellow eyes stared forward, their normal glow dimmed as they tried to blink back tears.

He was alive, but it pained her to see the aasimar like this; this was not the boy she had grown up with inside the walls of Candlekeep. That boy was quick to chastise her for her games from the ivory tower that was his ego. 'Don't touch any of my things!' this or 'I told you not to call me Angelboy!' that, those were what she heard from him on a daily basis, and almost always it was accompanied by his know-it-all haughtiness, crafted from burying his head within the library's numerous tomes. The Zanven before her now exuded none of that: no arrogance, no pride; there was only a broken shell, a feeble boy stricken by grief.

"He's... he's g-gone," Zanven whispered; had Imoen not noticed the movement of his mouth she wouldn't have known he had spoken at all. "Someone... _something_ came for us, and now he's dead... I ran away, away from him, and now he's gone." Limply, he leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers, watery eyes cast down at the ground between them.

Wordlessly, Imoen wrapped Zanven in a firm hug. A steady stream of tears wet her shoulder. She held the aasimar as he mourned, knowing for now words could do little to ease his heartache.

Now was not the time to let him know she had seen the aftermath of the ambush, and that she had come looking for him after finding only Gorion and the ogres the wizard-guardian had blasted apart. He would wonder soon, once he could think straight, why she had followed them outside Candlekeep; that could come later, when he could take the news with a stronger heart and a clearer mind. She had compassion to share, first and foremost.

She had no intentions of leaving him to wander alone. She was with him whether he liked it or not, and she wouldn't take no for an answer if he voiced his disapproval. There was no letting a friend down with Imoen, no sir!

"Let's have a look at that shoulder of yours, shall we? Get'cha patched up and good as new." Releasing Zanven, she reached into her pack and brought out a needle and thread and a blue bottle; she was no seamstress and far from a cleric, but it was something. She wedged the bottle in between Zanven's shaky hands and took a look at his robe.

"I ain't one o' them Oghma preachers, but try and drink this down. Tastes just like cow spit, but it'll make you better, promise. Now hold still, Angelboy, so I can fix this tear for you."

* * *

><p>They spent the rest of the morning alongside the road leading back to Candlekeep, near the cliffs overlooking the Sea of Swords. Imoen sat with Zanven, who had yet to utter more than a few words whenever she tried to get him to talk. The quiet between them was unusual; though siblings by association, they had honed their bickering into an art form of familial fighting. Only Peri's snoozing occasionally broke the silence.<p>

"Just look at the water down there! Takes my breath away, it does! You could just paint a picture of this, couldn't'cha?" Imoen started with a flourish, pointing out the scenic beauty of the cliffside, before feeling sheepish, "well, I mean... you know what I meant. You can't see it, but smell the salty sea breeze! Listen to the gulls! We're in nature's world now. There's even a couple'a sirines down there on the rocks!"

"I don't see anything," Peri chimed in with a yawn, awoken by her sudden liveliness. With a flutter of his wings, he moved to inspect the rocks below, confused.

"Hush, you! They are to! You can't see 'cause of the sleep in your eyes."

Zanven didn't budge. There was no pinching the bridge of his nose, no irritated sigh, no snide mockery of her attempt to illustrate the world around them. Imoen frowned. She had hoped he would at least do something, anything to provide a glimpse of his normal self. Even if his old self was a giant stick in the mud.

Imoen stood up, a new idea in mind, and moved behind Zanven to lean against his back. Perhaps touching upon old memories would do the trick. "Remember when we were little and I chased you around the library with one of Reevor's lazy furballs? Ran right out and into a fountain you did when I shoved it in your face and threatened to make you kiss it!"

A squeaky, gleeful chuckle arose from Peri, but Zanven was a rock. She was sure bringing up the embarrassing memory would tease a reaction out of him, but his sad stoicism held up. She hung her head down at failing again, completely at a loss.

"I don't even know where to look for him."

Imoen looked up in surprise.

"We... we were in such a hurry, and he told me so little," he said, voice subdued. "He wouldn't explain why we we're in such a rush. There was no time for talking, no time for questions." Zanven's voice slipped into a murmur.

Imoen gave his shoulders a sympathetic squeeze, sensing him cracking under the weight of his thoughts "We'll find him, you and I, just follow me. I won't even walk you into any trees, honest! It's the least we can do to make sure the buzzards don't get him," she hesitated, nervous she made too light of the situation, "Give'im a right proper burial—well, the best that we can do. Something more than those ogres deserve, that's for sure."

Zanven turned to face her, nearly off-balancing her. "You know." Acknowledgement rather than accusation. Imoen chewed her lip, regretting letting that bit slip; she thought she would have a bit more tact in explaining herself for being outside the fortified library and seeing the bodies. Already she could tell the gears in his head were turning. She knew he hated her nosiness, especially when it involved any of his business.

"I know." She squirmed before anxiety forced more out of her. "I was gonna tell you eventually, really, but—"

Zanven clutched her hands, bringing them together as he stood up. A sad smile threatened to crack his face, the first of which she had seen all day. Imoen wasn't sure what to make of him now; this wasn't anger.

"You know!" Zanven repeated with desperate excitement. Up and on his feet, he beckoned for his familiar. "Peri, she knows!"

The fairy dragon perched on Zanven's shoulder, babbling in delight, "She knows, she knows... knows what?"

"I, um, yeah... I know?" Imoen laughed nervously. It wasn't the change she had expected of her friend, but thankfully the grief filling his mind was beginning to dissipate.

"Where Father is, that's what," he clarified with a budding joy, the seed ever so small. "Im, please, please take me to him. Take me there!" He grabbed her hand again, anxious to move.

"Of-of course," Imoen faltered.

She led him off on a brisk pace, more than willing to answer his plea. It would be bittersweet, reuniting him with his slain guardian, but it was a step in the right direction to clear away the black clouds around him. A closure of sorts; perhaps not the happiest, but it would breathe life back into her childhood friend. Life that she, rascal that she was, would spit in the eyes of the gods if she had to, to retrieve.

"Come on, you, let's go then! And what'd I say about trying to break me? I'd like to be able to use that hand later! My bow won't be good for nothing with only one hand!"

* * *

><p>"-Jaheira and Khalid are currently at the Friendly Arm Inn. They know little of what has passed, but they are ever thy friends and will no doubt help however they can," Imoen finished, reading off from Gorion's scroll. "Doesn't say who wrote it neither, 'cept for E. Pretty cryptic, huh?"<p>

"Quite," Zanven said distractedly, wishing the letter had made more sense. It did little to explain their ambush and Gorion's murder. There was no reaching through death's fold to restore his soul, not with how mangled the body was; he could not see, but his hands felt the destruction wrought upon his foster father. Returning to the scene of his death, being able to restore dignity to Gorion's corpse, helped him fight off some of his despair. With his foster father properly buried—or as proper as the hand-dug, shallow grave could be—his churning mess of thoughts had shifted into one: what now? A sigh escaped him as he stood up, dusting himself off.

He didn't move at first; the thought of putting one foot in front of the other was a harrowing one. He could feel Imoen staring at him when he remained still, her feet scuffing the ground as she shifted in place. "We can't do him much better right now… but we can come back and build him a great big tomb later. Something much more fitting, y'know?"

He nodded. It was a pleasing thought, one he liked very much. "I wish he had told me more. It feels all for naught, leaving Candlekeep. I don't understand. I don't even know who, or what, did this to him. Why shed blood over me?" The malice of his attacker's words stuck with him, sending a shiver down his spine. It had been him that the killer truly wanted.

Imoen draped an arm around him. "It certainly wasn't these brutes. Gorion did a number on them. I wish I had an answer for you, though. I only know as much as you, if not less"—her voice hitched, tinged with guilt—"well, not quite. I, um, accidentally took a peek at Gorion's letter before you guys left. I should have said something before all this, spilled the beans so Gorion would have said something to you earlier."

"So that's why you're out here? How you found me and knew where his body was?"

"Uh-huh. It didn't sit right with me, all secretive and stuff... I had a bad feeling something would happen, that something would go wrong, so I followed you guys once the storm blew over... I mean, I was going to anyway, probably"—she mumbled for a moment, as if a child caught red-handed—"y'know me, but that letter had bad written all over it. Just didn't feel right. Not mad at me for snooping are you?" She let go of him, as if expecting a fit.

Normally finding out she had stuck her nose into his business unannounced would have irritated him, but no anger came; not today. "Mad? A thousand times no! I'd... I'd probably still be huddled in that bush bawling if your nosiness didn't lead you out of Candlekeep."

She ruffled his hair. "That's me, the hero of the story. Saving the damsel in distress—" Zanven poked her in the ribs with a stiff finger. "Ow! Alright, alright! Prince in distress. Better be grateful though, or I'll put you right back where I found you, I will!"

He smiled, his old self rising up. "No! Please, anything but that, Imoen the... what was it again?"

"Magnificent! S'my adventurin' title. You'll have to getch'er own!"

"Imoen the Magnificent," he chuckled; his spirit had been bruised but not yet broken. She suddenly pulled him into a headlock, rubbing her knuckles across his scalp.

"Don't you go taking the dirt nap on me, too! One under the ground's enough. We're two peas in a pod from here on out. Yer stuck with me, like it or not! Gorion'd think you were buffle-headed if you sat around feeling sorry for him, so I'll be making sure there's none of that!" He sensed something heartfelt hidden behind her cheer, hearing the wobble in her voice and feeling her grip tighten.

As much as he hated to admit it—and he was loath to ever do so in front of her face—she was an infectious sort. "We'd best get a move on then and find the road"—he slipped from her grasp, allowing his familiar room on his shoulder—"The quicker we get to the Friendly Arm the better." They'd be safer there, just as Gorion had said, right?

"I wonder what these friends of Gorion's are like," Imoen chirped as they set off together, in higher spirits than earlier in the day. "Jaheira and Khalid. Jaheira's a pretty name, probably a friendly sort, y'think?"

"We can only hope," he replied, similar thoughts on his mind. There was so much left unknown in the wake of Gorion's death, and meeting these two offered a loose string to pull on to start unwinding it all.


End file.
